Water Hazards
by Allaine
Summary: What if Demona and Macbeth DIDN'T go to Paris after the Avalon episodes? What if Avalon had a sense of humor?


Title: Water Hazards (1/1)

Author: Allaine

Summary: What if Demona and Macbeth DIDN'T end up in Paris after the Avalon episodes? What if Avalon had a - sense of humor?

* * *

"What is this latest devilry, Demona?" Macbeth snarled. "How did we get here?"

"_You're_ the one responsible for this!" Demona retorted, jabbing a talon in his direction. "I find myself here, with you, and unarmed. This could only be another of your pathetic attempts to end your worthless existence and mine along with it!"

"You blame ME? How typical," Macbeth said. "I'm in unfamiliar surroundings with you on some strange skiff in the middle of the night when only yesterday . . ." He paused. "Even my memory of the past day is gone, demon!"

"Only a day?" Demona asked, racking her brain. "My memory also appears to be faulty, but unless you can tell me the date and time, I could have lost days or even weeks!"

"Be that as it may, your presence can only mean that this is one of your twisted plots. I myself am also unarmed, and it is most unlikely that I would attempt to kill you with my bare hands."

"You lie with every breath, betrayer," Demona said, sneering. "I know you - " She stopped, and then smiled. "Unarmed, you say?"

Macbeth groaned softly. "Aye, you walked into that one, Macbeth," he muttered as Demona assumed a fighting position and spread her wings.

The movement, however, caught the attention of a third party. "Och," the man said, the top half of his face obscured by night vision goggles. "I never gave those two permission to play through." He reached into something the size of a large golf bag and dropped it on the grass. It was a small white sphere that looked like a golf ball.

In fact, it _was_ a golf ball. And it was a golf bag that the ball came from.

After all, why should Duff Killagan, rogue golfer, ever be without his beloved clubs, a family heirloom these past thirty-seven generations?

With years of practice, his driver swung down and made contact in the merest fraction of a second. The ball soared unerringly in the direction of the two people trespassing in the water hazard on Hole No. 7. "Fore!" he cried. "Or should I say, C-4!"

"Perhaps we should worry less about murdering each other," Macbeth was suggesting as he and Demona circled each other, "and more about where we are and what we were doing in _that_." He pointed to the wooden skiff.

"I'll worry about that once I've silenced you for the evening," she said. Then she cocked an ear. "Do you hear something?"

Macbeth heard the whistling sound and, looking up, just made out the white ball descending in an arc toward them. He did so despite the night sky, thanks to the trail of smoke behind it. "Move!" he shouted, jumping to the right.

Demona turned. Her eyes widened and she jumped in the opposite direction, landing in the shallows of the water on her hands and knees. Behind her, the golf ball landed on the grass and exploded, leaving a small crater behind.

"Damn," Killagan swore. "Guess I'll have me a few new sand traps when the sun rises." He retrieved several more golf balls and began driving them in Macbeth and Demona's direction.

"How about this then?" Macbeth shouted in Demona's direction. "We worry less about killing each other, and more about who's trying to kill BOTH of US."

Demona grunted, which he interpreted as reluctant assent. Then the next projectile sailed just beyond them, and they ducked their heads.

"I mean really," Duff said to himself. "What's the point of building yuir own golf course on the family's private island if you canna get in some midnight golfing without having to worry about trespassers!"

Macbeth cursed as both he and Demona swerved left and right as they raced toward their attacker. Their surroundings had very little in the way of trees or brush. Even the grass was cut so short that he'd think he was on a fairway if the idea of golfers with exploding golf balls wasn't so patently _ludicrous_.

He stumbled forward in the dark and pitched over, almost getting a mouthful of - "Sand," he said, feeling it between his fingers.

"Oy, laddie! Looks like yuir in a pretty bad lie there!" a man could barely be heard to cry up ahead. "Ah'd offer you me wedge, but you'll have to settle for cold IRON!"

Good God. He WAS on a golf course, and in a trap no less. A sand trap, that was. "A former king of Scotland," he growled, "will NOT be cut down by a deranged sportsman!"

Demona was finding the going maddening as well. There was nothing to climb. If she could just get airborne, she could end this silly game quickly.

Then another projectile landed in front of her, and survived the first bounce before it exploded chest-high and ripped a hole in her stomach. She cried out and fell.

Macbeth grabbed at his own chest as he crawled out of the bunker, rolled over onto his back, and closed his eyes.

"Hah!" Killagan crowed. "That'll do!"

He marched forward, pulling his bag with one hand behind him. His kilt flapped in the breeze. He got to Demona's prone form and stared at her quizzically. "What manner of beastie are you?" he wondered aloud, prodding her with the head of his driver.

Demona grabbed the head and looked up, red eyes blazing. "The kind that does not like Scotsmen!" she hissed as her chest muscles knit themselves together painfully.

Duff looked at her eyes and the blood on the fairway. Then he shrieked like a little girl. He turned and saw Macbeth staggering to his feet. "The dead, they're walking the earth!" Killagan cried out before abandoning the family heirloom and running back to his castle as fast as his short legs could carry him.

Barracading himself in his bedroom, Duff panted heavily before he ran to his computer and logged into a particularly hated website. "Yes, hello," he said as he typed. "Ah realize we don't always see eye to eye, but perhaps you could get me off mah island before ZOMBIES EAT MAH BRAINS!"

* * *

"I just got a weird hit on the site," Wade said. "Duff Killagan wants you to save him from being consumed by the living dead."

"Great, there goes Movie Night," Kim Possible sighed.

The End.

Author's Note - During the 2006 Gathering, I attended a spoof of the Food Network series Iron Chef, titled the "Iron Writer Challenge". Attendees were given a "secret ingredient" and one hour to write a story involving said ingredient. We were given Macbeth. And I thought, "Well, I do a lot of Kim Possible these days, and Duff IS Scottish, just like them, so . . ."

The rest unfolded very quickly.

This story takes liberties with Gargoyles, not only with Demona and Macbeth's destination, but also with their healing powers. I've always assumed the spell gave them rapid healing. If you assume otherwise, sorry, I only had an hour, you know.


End file.
